


so broken, so crowned

by Piyo13



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, M/M, discussions of kingship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 01:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17091314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13
Summary: Maedhros knew that, regardless of what others thought of his strength or lack thereof,hewould not be able to forgive himself for—for what, really? For taking an Oath that hung a Doom over all their heads? For being captured? Being tortured? Coming to understand the foul words of Black Speech that were spat at him, carved into him? The thought that maybe, maybe if he just fought long enough and often enough and hard enough, he could break the hold Angband held over him?





	so broken, so crowned

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd, sorry for any typos

Maedhros startled when the door opened, turning away from the window and reaching for his sword on instinct, before remembering he didn't have a hand there anymore and switching to his left. He relaxed, though, once he saw who the intruder was. 

"Finno."

"Mai."

Maedhros looked at Fingon carefully. That childhood nickname was—it still warmed Maedhros' heart to hear it said, but Fingon said it ever less often, and in ever more serious ways. Like on the backs of Eagles, for example. Maedhros rubbed at his stump, trying to make the action seem nonchalant. Fingon wasn't buying it. 

"How's the hand today?" he asked, pointedly. 

"Still gone," Maedhros said, and then regretted it when Fingon flinched ever so slightly. It had been months, and Maedhros rather thought Fingon should have worked through his guilt by now. "You know I don't blame you for it," he added. Fingon just looked away. 

"So you've said."

"And yet you would think yourself guilty." The words were familiar against Maedhros' tongue; this was not a new conversation. "You saved me, Finno. I owe you my life, and more. Many times over, at this point."

Fingon looked at Maedhros appraisingly. Shrewdly. Fingon was easy-going enough that at times it was easy to forget he was Fingolfin's son; but in moments like these, Fingolfin's cunning shone through in Fingon's eyes and made his parentage all too obvious. 

"And yet," Fingon said, and Maedhros braced himself for whatever was about to follow. "And yet you would not grant me the one thing I desire."

Maedhros turned sharply away to stare back out the window. The plains of the cold north stretched out before him, the windswept grass yellowed with the approaching winter. Beyond that, Angband and Thangorodrim. Maedhros couldn't see them clearly, for they were barely more than a smudge on the horizon; the knowledge sent a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. And yet, some twisted part of him  _homed_  there like a dove to its roost, his eyes ever turning northward. Maedhros hated it, hated what that place had done to him and what he had become, and that was why he couldn't grant Fingon his wish.

"I cannot," Maedhros found himself saying, still peering into the distance. 

"Then forswear it!" Fingon was well and truly agitated now, pacing Maedhros' small room like he intended to wear a path into the very stone. Fingon paced, when he was stressed—Maedhros had known this since they were young, and had known this once again in their makeshift medical tent after his rescue, where Fingon's worried feet had stripped the grass from the soil along one wall. "Forswear the Oath and  _rest_ , Maitimo. Your life and your health are worth more than a bauble."

Maedhros ignored the barb against the Silmarils; that had been a long-standing discussion in recent days between the two of them as well. Fingon had braved the Helacaraxë to come to Beleriand, but still he was not as convinced of the Silmaril’s worth as others. And his father had asked him to take the Oath, and then died for it; how could Maedhros refuse its call?

And then there was the pull that Angband still had on him. In his darkest moments, Maedhros wondered how much of him was Orcish, now. He wondered if the shape of his fëa was how all Orcs had begun, a longing to return to the darkness no matter how it hurt them.

This was something with which he would never burden Fingon.

“There’s another reason, too,” he said instead. Fingon lifted an eyebrow, not convinced. “My people.”

“Damn it, Mai, you know full well those under your command will survive another moon without you!”

“It’s not about whether they can, it’s about whether they _should,_ ” Maedhros snapped back.

“Yes! They should!” Fingon said, stopping his pacing to better gesticulate. “You are still recovering from the worst thing any Elf has ever faced—”

“No,” Maedhros cut in, barely loud enough to be heard. Fingon quieted, waiting. “I was not the worst.” Fingon’s ears flatten down a little, and his lips draw tight, but his brows furrow and the gold that normally twinkles gently through his hair seems to spark viciously.

“Fine. You were not the worst. But, Mai, you have _suffered_ , and I should know!” he said, holding up a hand to forestall any interjection Maedhros might have. “I cut you down from that mountain, I saw what you looked like—you were naught but a skeleton coated with flesh.” Fingon’s eyes softened. “Recovery takes time.”

“My people need a leader,” Maedhros said, and this much was true—he still bore in his chest the gnawing guilt for leaving his people for so long. They’d placed their trust in him and he’d gone off and gotten _captured—_

“You have five brothers still, and yet to regain full use of your arm,” Fingon said, a touch cruelly. Maedhros sucked in a breath before letting it out slowly, shifting so that the stump of his arm lay hidden in the folds of his furred cloak.

“Yes, and it is not their responsibility. I must hold the north, and they are my people, too.”

FIngon stared at Maedhros for a few seconds, his rich brown eyes searching Maedhros’ face. Whether Fingon found what he was looking for or not, Maedhros could not say. Fingon finally sat down on the bed, looking as tired as Maedhros had ever seen him.

“Why do you insist on carrying the weight of everyone’s wellbeing on your shoulders?” he asked finally, sadly. Maedhros wasn’t sure if a response was needed, but he answered anyway.

“If I don’t, then who will?”

“Any of us,” Fingon said, his voice carrying a touch of despair. “All of us. _Me._ ” Maedhros stared, and Fingon forged onwards. “I know you have had great expectations placed on you, for you are Nelyafinwë, firstborn son of Fëanor and Nerdanel. But Maitimo—the world won’t end if you set down your mantle for a while. No one will think you weak, or a lesser lord, if you take the time you need to heal.”

But Maedhros—Maedhros knew that, regardless of what others thought of his strength or lack thereof, _he_ would not be able to forgive himself for—for what, really? For taking an Oath that hung a Doom over all their heads? For being captured? Being tortured? Coming to understand the foul words of Black Speech that were spat at him, carved into him? The thought that maybe, maybe if he just fought long enough and often enough and hard enough, he could break the hold Angband held over him?

That there was a part of him that looked forward to marching, to scouting, if it meant being able to near himself to the Iron Fortress?

No. He would not be able to forgive himself for that, and no other Elf should, either.

When Maedhros didn’t answer, Fingon sighed. He stood and crossed to where Maedhros was standing. The cold light banked the fire in his gold as he raised his hands to cup Maedhros’ cheeks, pulling him down gently, far enough that he could place a kiss on Maedhros’ forehead.

He didn’t let go immediately afterwards, instead leaning their foreheads together so their noses touched. Maedhros closed his eyes, tension bleeding out of him as they shared breaths. Almost, Maedhros thought about telling Fingon the truth. Telling him about the way Angband and its dark lords haunted his every second, if only to have someone who _knew._

Before he could work up his courage, Fingon pulled back, his hands dropping as he surveyed Maedhros.

“When you’re ready to talk about whatever it is that ails you, I am ready to listen,” he said. Then he turned, and left.

Maedhros tracked him until the end of Fingon’s cloak disappeared past the open doorway.

His eyes flickered to the window. The northern plain was as cold and unforgiving as always; Maedhros felt a certain kinship with it.

He pulled up the furred hood of his cloak, and settled himself to keep watch.


End file.
